Lessons In Klingonese
by M C Pehrson
Summary: Story #14 While on the promised trip to Ildarani, Spock and T'Beth are kidnapped and held hostage by a Klingon bent on revenge.
1. Chapter 1

T'Beth had been watching the passing stars slowly shrink into the rippling distance of hyperspace. Now there was no recognizing any of those crazy shimmers of light that filled the viewport. With his experienced eye, Father could probably still point out their last stopover, but Spock was sleeping in his seat and even had he been awake, T'Beth would not have risked embarrassing him by a question he might not be able to answer. She had already done that too many times. There was no predicting the random, dismaying memory gaps that plagued him since fal-tor-pan. But at least he was alive! All through this trip she intended to show him her gratitude for that miracle in a thousand small ways. Should he forget anything, let it be the many times she had behaved thoughtlessly these past three years.

The voice of their Vulcan pilot came over the public address system. The starliner was beginning its wide arc around the rim of the Klingon Empire. They were cruising at warp five. Eight hours to next planetfall, Ildarani.

Fortunately Father slept through the announcement. He sorely needed rest. Since the refusion he had been bothered by dreams and flashbacks to those nightmarish hours on Genesis when the planet was disintegrating. Not even the healing sessions on Mount Seleya helped much anymore. The Vulcan Masters had returned Spock to life and now he alone must learn to deal with it.

But here on the starliner T'Beth didn't like leaving him alone. Though she had a compartment next to his, she stayed with her father as much as possible during the daytime hours. Medication helped him sleep at night, but even a nap sometimes brought on another episode of screaming. And now as she watched, the rhythm of his breathing changed and there were faint movements beneath his eyelids. All at once it came over him—the outbreak of sweat, the gasping, the terrible straining against some nebulous dream agony. Immediately T'Beth nudged him awake, calling to him softly. Spock opened his eyes and stared at her with blank fear for an instant. Then the relief hit, and the impatience with himself. Adjusting his chair upright, he glanced toward the viewport.

"Where are we?" he asked.

T'Beth told him.

Looking weary and discouraged, he closed his eyes again. T'Beth wished she knew how to help. This new-Spock could be touchy, particularly at times like this. In some ways he scarcely resembled the before-Spock she had struggled to know—even physically. Since fal-tor-pan he had not returned to active service in Starfleet, or to the trim Starfleet haircut he had worn most of his adult life. His dark hair was so shaggy that it covered his pointed ear tips and most of his upswept eyebrows. In his traveling clothes she looked dignified, mysterious…and quite human.

Lately Sarek had been pressuring Spock to join the Vulcan diplomatic corps or accept a teaching post at the Science Academy. T'Beth knew that was part of the reason for this escape to her home world, but it was also to satisfy a promise Spock had made to her. If Ildarani helped unlock more of his memories and make him feel more secure, all the better.

On Vulcan it had been whispered that Father might never be himself again—that the rejoining of memories to body, the refusion, had been impaired by his human half. The priestess T'Lar had advised Spock to remain secluded on Mount Seleya. The human friends who had saved Father—his Starfleet shipmates—were urging him to spend more time with them. For a while Spock had been torn between everyone's demands, but in the end he had followed his own path, choosing a middle ground that included a little of everything. Naturally each group had then accused the other of "undue influence". What a ruckus there must have been when they found out that Father had taken her and left the whole darned planet. Of course he had left them all a message of explanation, but for now he wasn't answering their calls.

Yes, it was a good thing Father was away from all of that. Lovingly T'Beth placed her hand over his, but the touch went unanswered. Was he sleeping again?

Later they left the compartment and climbed down a short flight of steps to the lounge, where refreshments and various diversions were provided for the passengers' comfort. T'Beth was surprised at the strange mixture of people in the lounge today. After four stopovers, there were few passengers left from the original Vulcan group. Here were more aliens than she had ever seen gathered in one place, including the starship Enterprise, and they made her a little nervous. She stayed close to her father.

Over their meal Spock taught her the species of their fellow voyagers. He still knew them all—that was the best part. It was so interesting that T'Beth relaxed and set aside her craving for the fried chicken at a local restaurant on Ildarani. For now the Vulcan vegetarian plate was good enough, but once they reached their destination, Father said she could eat meat if she wanted.

A brown-skinned couple walked into the dining area and looked directly at her before turning to the food dispensers. Both the male and the female wore helmet-like caps that covered them from eye level to the napes of their necks.

T'Beth nodded toward the newcomers. "Father, what are they? The ones with the funny headgear?"

They were behind Spock now, food trays in hand. Rather than turn around, he searched for them in the mirrored wall at the front of the lounge—and froze. But only for an instant. Swiveling, he stared openly at the two aliens. Before T'Beth could say anything more, Spock was up and out the door.

 _What had just happened?_ Embarrassed, she waited alone. The brown aliens whispered between themselves and seemed to smirk at her as they took a table. Several other non-Vulcans cast curious glances in her direction, no doubt wondering why her escort had left so suddenly. She tried to ignore them as she finished the last of her meal. Why would her father thrust her into such an uncomfortable situation? Should she stay here and watch his soup grow cold? Was he coming back? She decided to wait five minutes longer. Then she got up and left. She made her way slowly to Father's compartment, not sure of what she would find or if she would even be welcome. At the door she hesitated, then pressed the chime.

"Come in," he said impatiently, as if she were the one who had done something wrong.

She entered the cramped area where they had spent so much of the past three days. Father was standing at the viewport, gazing out into Space. Sudden anger swept through her and she felt like yelling. _What's the matter with you? You're scaring me! You're spoiling everything!_

Very quietly he said, "Traveling with such a father must not be easy for you."

The words melted T'Beth completely. Squeezing past the chair, she put her arms snugly around him. "Iksom lom nomak'som," she whispered and felt him react to the Vulcan words with surprise.

"N'iksom," he responded in a thick voice, "loma nomak'som naksom'la." Grasping her by the arms, he stepped back and looked into her eyes. "The 'Iksom'—you know it?

T'Beth thought of the ancient poem's entirety, the beautifully flowing lines she had recited for Spock last spring, before his death. It hurt that he no longer seemed to remember that day. Blinking back tears, she said, "Yes. The 'Song of Valor'. It's about integrity, about courage, about putting another's welfare above your own. It's…like what you did when you gave your life on the Enterprise."

Had she said the wrong thing? Over the next hour T'Beth watched helplessly as her father descended into a strange brooding silence. Nothing she said seemed to relieve his dark mood—a mood, she suspected, that stemmed from the unfortunate scene at dinner. If only he would talk about it. If only he would treat her like a grown-up instead of a little girl. After all, she was approaching fifteen. Driven by frayed nerves she finally said, "Father. Can't you tell me what's wrong? Why did you leave me down there? You should've seen the way everyone gawked." And she could not resist adding a bit untruthfully, "Even the Vulcans."

"Vulcans," he said from his chair, "do not gawk."

" _You_ did," she blurted, and immediately regretted it.

A tortuously slow minute passed before he responded. "I did not mean to embarrass you." Once more he paused, as if searching for just the right words. "It was the sight of the alien couple. For a moment I thought—but they cannot be what I imagined."

"Klingons?" An inspired guess, and apparently accurate.

The color drained from Father's face. Something very much like loathing flared in his eyes before he could collect himself. "It is not possible, I tell you. I was mistaken."

"But…what if they really _are_ Klingons? Did you tell the captain? Just as a precaution?"

Father turned from her and went stony. A short while later he rose, motioned for her to stay put, and left the compartment. Alone once again, T'Beth looked out at the stars and berated herself for making matters worse. She had overheard Sarek saying that Father's experience on the Genesis planet had left him with a phobia toward Klingons, but she had not believed it, not until now. For the first time she questioned the wisdom of traveling with Spock so far from Vulcan. What if his condition grew worse? What would she do? Worried, T'Beth stared out the viewport and hoped for the best. There was no going back now.

Five hours from Ildarani she saw a spacecraft appear out of nowhere. The oddly shaped vessel loomed alarmingly close and blinked out of sight almost immediately. T'Beth wondered if she had witnessed a near collision. When the door opened a moment later, she turned excitedly to tell her father—and found instead the most ugly, menacing brute she had ever seen!

Her mouth fell open. The dark, knobby-headed male leered at her and brandished a long-barreled weapon.

She screamed. The creature lunged forward. Steely fingers slapped over her mouth, cutting off the sound.

She bit him on the hand. With a grunt of outrage he pulled back. In her moment of advantage she tried to knock his weapon aside. With a roar, he lashed out. A single blow to her head sent her careening into a wall. As she slid limply to the floor, the compartment went blurry and slowly faded from view.

oooo

Deep in thought, Spock left the cockpit and headed for his cabin. Captain Selak had shown polite interest in Spock's mention of the dark aliens, but had assured him that there were no Klingons among the registered passengers. It was what Spock had wanted to hear. His duty—as rightfully pointed out by T'Beth—thus discharged, he had lingered at Selak's invitation, keeping the pilot company while his co-pilot ate. There was a pleasant conversation until the proximity alarm sounded. The starliner's sensors briefly detected a ship close by before it disappeared. The vessel's configuration had suggested a Klingon design—or so it had seemed to Spock. These days he was seeing Klingons everywhere.

Setting the worry aside, he moved down the narrow corridor to the passenger section. A discordant sound shattered his fragile sense of well-being. Heart hammering, he stopped short and listened. Footsteps were pounding in his direction, heavy boots striking the deck, guttural Klingon-sounding words spoken. 

For one instant Spock stood frozen, and then primal panic took hold. Running for the nearest door, he struck the switch plate. Nothing happened. Something dark appeared at the end of the corridor. Backing into the meager shelter of the doorway, he flattened himself and held his breath as a huge pair of swarthy Klingons came charging up the corridor. A barely rational part of him struggled to devise a quick, efficient plan of ambush, but disabling waves of horror sabotaged any attempt at logical thought. Like a hunted animal he pressed his back to the door and watched the Klingons start to pass by—then stop.

Whirling, they faced him, blasters at ready, dark eyes narrowing beneath shaggy bifurcated brows. A deathly chill crept over Spock as the larger of the two reached toward him and pushed Spock's hair away from an ear, then an eyebrow. The Klingon sneered. With cool deliberation the Klingon then drew out a sticklike object and touched it to Spock's neck. Spock fell to the deck in agony.

"Enjoy!" snarled the Klingon in heavily accented Standard. "Enjoy, you khesting Vulqan dog!"

A second torturous poke of the stick caught Spock on his side, then the Klingon spoke into a communicator and time briefly lapsed into oblivion.

oooo

Rough hands dragged Spock off a transporter stage and probed his clothing, presumably in a search for weapons. Then he was jerked upright and held firmly in place between his abductors.

Spock did what he could to clear the pain-haze from his mind. He saw a man and a woman pulling caps off their heads, rubbing their knobby brows, looking intolerably smug. He became aware of another, still more massive and authoritarian presence, muscles bulging, black Klingon eyes aflame.

"Ghuy'cha!" snarled the giant. "Rikta! Chy'?"

The Klingon who had attacked Spock stiffened beside him and said, "Khama' vikippu neh!"

"Kho!" the giant growled. "Khuh'be'!"

"Lu'gah!" came the quick subservient reply. "Jiyaj'!"

With unexpected gentleness the Klingons guided Spock out of the transporter room, slow on his feet, but walking. Partway down a dim passage, one of the Klingons hoisted Spock over his shoulder and carried him as easily as a sack. They went through a doorway into an uncomfortably cool cabin where, after some muttering, they dumped him on a pallet.

One Klingon bent over him. Gazing arrogantly into Spock's eyes, he fingered his cheek. The unwelcome contact deluged Spock with tangled memories of Genesis, helpless hours of confused agony, dark cruel faces, the scent of violence and death. He pulled away and the Klingon grinned sourly. "Poor little Vulqangan," he said through his feral teeth, "I can almost pity you."

The Klingons growled with laughter as they walked out. The door closed, then reopened. The massive commander came to stand over Spock's pallet, his dark heavy features curiously expressionless. Gray streaked his scraggly beard and shoulder-length hair, and his face bore the scars of many battles. Like his men, he wore an odd mixture of military and civilian clothing.

Working to maintain a veneer of impassivity, Spock stared back at him. He was disgusted by his own behavior—the paralyzing emotion that had contributed to his capture and now kept him from going for this Klingon's throat. Fear oozed from his pores in cold sweat. He had become a coward.

"So that you will know," the Klingon's voice rumbled, "my name is Torlath. But you will never speak it. You will address me only as 'my lord', for I am your master now. You will come to accept your servitude—if necessary, by a series of painful lessons."

Spock forced himself to speak, but the words were unsteady. "There is no gain in torturing a Vulcan."

Torlath almost smiled. "Yes, I have heard of the Vulqan's legendary tolerance, but I seldom find much truth in legends, my Vulqangan breed. You did not fare so well with our pain sticks. It shall be interesting to test this particular legend further, do you not agree?"

Spock looked aside.

Torlath seized him the hair and roughed jerked his head back. "I spoke to you!" the Klingon hissed into his face. "When I speak to you, Vulqangan, you will answer!"

When provoked, even a frightened animal will sometimes bare its teeth and fight back. Spock sprang at the Klingon with a ferocity that surprised them both. Torlath landed hard on the deck. Lunging atop the huge Klingon, Spock drove his fist into Torlath's face and attempted a nerve pinch.

The Klingon laughed. Easily brushing Spock's hand aside, Torlath leaped up to tower over Spock from his full massive height, and his smile faded. Purple blood seeped from a cut on his lower lip. Wiping it with the back of his hand, he glanced down at the smudge, and then abruptly whipped the knuckles across Spock's face. Spock attempted to counter and fight on, but there was no stopping the giant, or even slowing him. Those few blows Torlath failed to deflect only seemed to amuse the Klingon. Over and over Spock reached for the nerve paths at Torlath's powerful neck, but the huge Klingon palms knocked him flat. Finally Spock stayed down. Bruised and bleeding, he looked daggers at his overbearing captor, but there was no logic in further provoking Torlath when he was so clearly outmatched. Along with all the Genesis fears haunting him, now there was fear for the future. Who was this mad giant of a man? Into what hell was Torlath taking him? What chance had he of escaping? His one hope was that T'Beth was still safe aboard the starliner.

"So," gloated Torlath, "the first of many lessons, my Vulqangan. _I_ am the master. When I speak you will answer me." And his voice snapped, "Now answer!"

From the floor Spock said, "I seem to have forgotten the question." And it was true.

Torlath's mouth curled with scorn. "So much for the legendary Vulqan intellect…"

oooo

Spock spent the remainder of the journey locked in the cabin, shivering. The off-planet warming suit he wore under his clothes had been damaged during the beating. It offered little protection against the chilly Klingon environment.

What passed for food was periodically shoved through a low slot in the door. Spock's bowl invariably contained some sort of animal flesh or stewed Gagh. He consumed only the water and dark biscuit that accompanied each meal.

In his mind he tracked the slow passage of days, often lying for hours on his pallet listening to the ominous creaks and groans of the ship. He thought of T'Beth. There was a time when he might have sensed if she were near, if she were in danger, but he had not yet regained the mental clarity for that. All he could do was wonder…and continue to hope for his daughter's safety.

Stillness came on the third day. Spock waited in his cabin as brisk foot traffic sounded in the corridor beyond his door, subsided, and the ship seemed emptied of people. With rising dread he waited for the ordeal that surely lay ahead in this waking nightmare. This was far worse than his experience of death aboard the Enterprise. Then, there had been little time for fear. His sacrifice had been an act of love for his friends, for his ship, for honor and duty—yet it had also been beautifully logical. He had freely reached into the radiation flux, embracing in death everything he held dear. It had been, without doubt, the finest moment of his life. And now that he had his life back, he must not continue to dishonor it with cowardice. Despite his fears, he vowed to meet his fate with dignity and test every avenue of escape.

Spock heard slow heavy footsteps approaching and ducked beside the entrance. As the door slid aside, he stood poised to deliver a jabbing nerve pinch. His fingers trembled with readiness. A dark shape came into view. Heart slamming, he lunged for Torlath's thick neck—and went nowhere! His arms were unresponsive, frozen. His legs felt rooted to the deck. He stood as if paralyzed while Torlath casually pulled his useless arms behind him and bound his wrists together.

"The Andromedan paralysis field," rumbled Torlath. "A fine acquisition by my government, do you not agree?" Smiling at Spock's thinly veil frustration, he released the field.

Torlath hustled him down the gangplank, into a cold drizzly night. The air was sharp with the scent of damp vegetation and wood smoke. Wordlessly the Klingon shoved him ahead, onto a forest path all but obscured by fog. After several minutes they came to a clearing that had a barnyard odor. The outbuildings were dark, but lights shone from the windows of a large stone house.

Torlath pushed Spock inside. They passed through a warm kitchen area full of curious Klingon women, then moved down a steep flight of steps to a blackness too thick even for Spock's Vulcan eyesight. He heard and scented water. A damp basement dungeon, perhaps? Then the lights came on and Spock found himself in a roomy, well-furnished bedchamber. He blinked in surprise at the steam rising from a luxuriously tiled spa sunken into one corner.

Torlath untied his hands and gave him a nudge. "Wash yourself. You smell like a khesting Vulqan snarth!"

Spock walked to the edge of the spa and hesitated. He had heard reports of the Klingon fondness for bathing. Apparently they liked their prisoners clean as well. Acutely aware of Torlath's eyes on him, he stripped the clothes from his bruised body and stepped down into the warm churning water. Torlath tossed him a cake of soap. To Spock's dismay the Klingon then began to disrobe. Torlath's muscles bulged as he entered the bath opposite Spock and sank down to his arrogant bearded chin. Spock considered trying to drown him, but he had no wish to touch the Klingon's bare flesh or be touched by him. And Torlath had already proven his physical superiority. Spock kept to his own side of the spa and washed in silence.

After the bath Spock received new clothes—a brown shirt and pants that tied at the waist by a soft cord. Klingon pajamas? The lightweight material was woefully impractical for a Vulcan in this climate. He watched as Torlath confiscated his shoes and warm traveling clothes, and resigned himself to being cold indefinitely. He glanced at the bed with its generous layer of blankets, surely meant for the comfort of a Klingon. In what damp hole would he be sent to sleep?

"Tired?" asked Torlath, coming to stand before him. At Spock's lack of response the dark Klingon eyes narrowed chillingly. "Once more you forget, Vulqangan."

Spock looked at him and said nothing.

"You will kneel," Torlath said quietly. "You will address me with proper respect."

The thought of kneeling to a Klingon turned Spock's stomach more than any fear. He remained standing.

A slow cruel smile stirred Torlath's lips. His voice dropped still lower. "Oh, you are proud. Your neck is stiff, but you will soon learn to bend it. You will kneel, you will beg, you will cry like a child to me."

Spock's face revealed nothing of his inner turmoil. Silent and determined, he locked eyes with the man who would be his master. Let Torlath taunt him. Words were only words. And it would take more than a word to send him to his knees.

"Ah yes." Torlath's eyes glittered. "Be strong. Defy me. Act tough." Laughing, he reached into a fold of his tunic and an entire wall transformed into a viewscreen. The chamber that appeared was similar to the one they occupied, but more richly ornamented with tapestries and carpets and flowering plants banked beside the spa. A huge fur-covered bed dominated the center of the room. On the furs lay a desolate, dark-haired girl in Vulcan dress. _T'Beth!_

Spock felt the universe collapsing around him, but somehow he remained on his feet. Somehow he maintained a semblance of composure. Feigning indifference, he turned from the wall screen to face Torlath.

The Klingon regarded him with black amusement. "She is a comely little wench. My men grow restless aboard ship. One like this would occupy them on long voyages, do you not agree?"

"No," Spock said too hastily. He stopped, and fighting panic, forced his voice to be measured and calm. "I admit to surprise, sir, that you would consider such an unprofitable course. Perhaps you are not aware of the girl's identity."

Torlath raised a shaggy eyebrow. "Speak up, Vulqangan. What do you know of her?"

"I met her aboard the starliner. She is a member of an old and influential family on Vulcan. Undamaged, she would fetch a fine ransom for you."

"Is that so?" purred the Klingon. "And why, Vulqangan, are you telling me this?"

Spock, too, raised an eyebrow and pretended to consider. "I am in your power, sir. Is it not in my best interest to please you?"

"How wonderfully selfish." The Klingon's mouth twisted as he observed T'Beth on the screen. "I have no doubt that she is valuable. An interesting crossbreed, by the look of her. But…she is also something more." His great head turned. His black eyes bored deep into Spock's. "She is that rarest of rare commodities—a Vulcan's price."

"Surely—" Spock's voice faltered. He knew sinkingly that the Klingon was not fooled. "Surely, sir, her family will pay a high price."

"Yes." Torlath looked smug. "A very high price." Once more he reached into his tunic, a subtle movement, and Spock realized he was handling a control device. "Watch the screen closely, Vulqangan. You may find this entertaining. It is an ancient test of maidenhood peculiar to Klingon culture." He folded his arms across his chest in pleasurable anticipation.

A hulking Klingon entered T'Beth's room. Leaping to her feet, she maneuvered to keep the bed between her and the intruder. She looked fearlessly defiant as only T'Beth could, but now Spock saw the swelling and discoloration on her face, and with clenched teeth imagined what sort of blow might have caused it, and why. And he knew with painful clarity how this particular contest would also end.

The leering Klingon stalked her around the bed, murmuring in his guttural language, making a cruel game of it. Then, with one impossibly swift movement, the Klingon had her. Laughing at her struggles, he easily pinned her to the bed.

Spock looked at Torlath with murder in his eyes.

The Klingon gazed coolly back at him. "Does that bother you, Vulqangan? Perhaps you want her for yourself?" From the screen came more laughter, and the rip of clothing. T'Beth cried out. "That might he arranged when my men—when _I—_ tire of her. Perhaps on some snowy day on Vulqan!"

Spock glanced back at the screen. He could not clearly see what the Klingon was doing, and was not at all sure that he wanted to see. Growing desperate, he met Torlath's maddening, self-assured gaze. _I have you now,_ mocked the Klingon eyes. _You are mine, all mine. Submit to me._ And under the circumstances Spock saw no other choice.

"My lord," he said as if the words might choke him. Dropping onto his knees, he bowed his head low, hiding the uncontrollable flush of shame. "My lord, I will do whatever you say. Only spare her." An agonizing moment passed, filled with the hopeless sounds of struggle, and sobbing. "My _lord_." Spock's voice shook. He brought his hands together in a wrenching pantomime of supplication. "I _beg_ of you— _please—_ she is only a child."

Torlath studied him leisurely, taking obvious enjoyment in his captive's humiliation. With a smile he slowly reached into his tunic, and on the screen a very disappointed Klingon backed away from T'Beth and left her crying on the bed. Then the picture dissolved.

"Your daughter is safe," Torlath said, "for now. But her future depends entirely on you, Spock of Vulqan."

At the sound of his name Spock's mind raced, but he could not bring himself to meet Torlath's overbearing gaze, not in this demeaning posture. Instead he focused on the ornate buckle decorating the Klingon's belt, on the pair of serpents greedily devouring their own tails.

"Yes," Torlath said with sarcasm, "I know who you are, brave Starfleet warrior. And I know the name of your pretty little bastard child."

Spock drew in a deep, steadying breath. "My lord—what do you want with us?"

"That is not your concern," snapped the Klingon. "From the moment of your capture, _I_ became your only concern! Listen well, Vulqangan, and I will explain it in terms that even _you_ can understand. Serve me satisfactorily and your little T'Beth will live the life of a pampered princess. If you are rebellious, she will suffer. If you attempt any escape…or violence…or Vulqan mental treachery, she will be tortured. If you take your own life, I will throw her to my men, my women, my khesting dogs. And if you should be so foolish as to kill me, I can protect neither of you from my people's wrath. Is that clear enough?"

"Yes," Spock said numbly. Then remembering, "Yes, my lord."

Torlath walked to the door. At the light switch he paused and glanced over his massive shoulder. "Rest well, Vulqangan. Tomorrow we will continue your instruction."

The lights went out. The door shut.

Sinking back on his heels, Spock let himself shiver freely in the chill darkness. So this was to be his room, after all—the cell of a Klingon slave. He had always known something of this kind might happen. A Starfleet officer, the son of a prominent ambassador, was a fine target for terrorism. But while considering the possibility, Spock had always pictured himself standing tall and comporting himself with honor—not groveling like a cowed beast. This was one variable he had avoided examining very closely, trusting himself to somehow handle the dilemma of blackmail, if ever it arose, by working out an respectable solution to the worst of no-win scenarios.

Well, here he was, on his knees handling it. If total submission would buy T'Beth's safety, then for now he was sold into bondage. Honor was not always a pretty thing.

The cold stone flagging of the floor hurt his knees. He got up. He looked at the faint light filtering in beneath the door. Somewhere nearby, probably in this same building, T'Beth lay frightened and lonely, desperately needing him. He, too, was frightened. Torlath's warnings pounded at him like heavy Klingon fists. There was, he decided, no logic in testing the door tonight. It would either be locked—or an open trap.

Not knowing what else to do, he climbed into the welcome warmth of the bed, but sleep did not come easily or last long. _…He was lost. Small, shaking with fear, he walked aimlessly through a strange land. The ground heaved and buckled under his bare feet. Red clouds roiled in the sky, the wind tore limbs from trees and hurled debris high into the air. And the agony of a dying world convulsed his young body…_

Spock awoke screaming. It was a long time before his heart slowed and he could force sleep upon himself. … _And there were people. Kind, comforting arms and gentle voices. But fever mounted in him, wracking his body with hot chills, pressuring him toward madness…until the gentle hands gave him direction and relief…until the Klingon knife hovered over him and passed on and plunged into the fair one, spilling blood and death…_

More screams, long and loud gasps of terror filled the night. Spock reared up and found hands touching him. Disoriented, he reached out and said, "…Jim?"

In the darkness Torlath's voice taunted him like a lingering dream specter. "No, your friend Jim Kirk is not here—yet. Why do you disturb the household?"

Spock shrank away from the Klingons's touch. "Nightmares…my lord." He took a deep breath and his voice steadied. "I am sometimes troubled by violent dreams."

"Well, become untroubled, Vulqangan, or I will give you reason to howl!" Torlath spat a vulgarity and stalked back into the night.

Spock lay awake thinking. _Jim Kirk is not here—yet._ Then Jim was expected? Was he, Spock, merely the bait in some extraordinary scheme to capture Admiral Kirk? In that case Torlath would meet with disappointment. Starfleet would never sanction some wild charge into enemy Space to rescue a decommissioned officer and his daughter. Most certainly they would not risk an admiral, even a tarnished admiral like Kirk. And despite Jim's late recklessness and insubordination, he was not foolish enough to undertake such a mission on his own. Was he?


	2. Chapter 2

Without windows, there was no way to gauge the approach of dawn on this unfamiliar planet. Suddenly a Klingon raised the lights and slammed down a bowl of food. "Lazy dog! Get up! Do you think you are a privileged guest of the Empire?" Out he stormed, banging the door closed behind him. This time there was the sound of a locking device.

Reluctantly Spock left his bed for the unremitting chill of the basement. His breakfast bowl contained what were obviously leavings, but the leavings were fresh and of food types suitable for a Vulcan diet—vegetable peelings, fruit cores, crusts of bread. And he was in no position to be choosy. He sat and ate.

Afterward he took the opportunity to explore his new surroundings. There was a small lavatory and other than a few electric light panels, the gray stone walls of his prison were bare. A pair of tiny air outlets provided woefully inadequate ventilation. Disheartened, he came to a stop beside the steamy, bubbling spa.

There was a sound on the stairs. The door opened and Torlath came in. Not sure if he was expected to kneel, Spock simply bowed and kept his eyes downcast as he had seen slaves behave in front of their masters. How he had pitied them and despised the demeaning and exploitive practice of slavery. He had never imaged that someday he, too, would be among their numbers.

"Aboard ship I warned you," Torlath said, flexing a snakelike strap between his hands. Against his will, Spock found his eyes drawn to it. The heavy black thong was the length of Torlath's arm, as wide and thick as two Klingon fingers. "You were warned, yet you chose the path of defiance. Now, Vulqngan, I will show you the path of pain." The Klingon bared his unsightly teeth. "Take off your shirt."

Spock stared at the whip without moving. Vague memories of another whip came to him—prison bars, men in Nazi uniforms—but the images were distant, so far removed from the bitter intensity of this moment. Last night he had gone to his knees before Torlath. Was that not degrading enough?

Torlath gazed at him, secure in his evil power. "I see that you have eaten, Vulqan. I hope you enjoyed the food. Because you are slow in obeying me, T'Beth will go hungry today…" He paused meaningfully. "And tomorrow…"

With clenching fingers Spock yanked the shirt over his head and let it drop.

"Already you are learning," Torlath said in a low, ugly tone. "Come. Over by the wall."

Spock moved, each slow step a leaden act of will. _For T'Beth…for her safety…her comfort. Iksom lom nomak'som…_

"Put your hands on the wall," Torlath commanded. "Keep them there."

Spock pressed his palms to the icy stone and repressed a shiver. He focused on the bland gray rock, on its rough-hewn texture. He worked at calming the disorder in his mind. Physically, there was no reason he could not control the pain. Genesis had restored that portion of his brain lost to plakir-fee. But his retraining in the disciplines was not yet complete, and as for his emotional state—

The whip sang through the air. It cracked across his back, stealing away his breath, shattering his concentration with a surge of raw hatred. And in that instant Spock knew the discipline of Vulcan was beyond him. Setting his teeth, he absorbed each searing stroke of the whip in silent agony. It was a leisurely beating. Torlath understood torture, how to pace himself and keep his victim off-guard and utterly demoralized. He knew just how and where to lay a lash, and when. And he enjoyed it.

"You are sweating," taunted the Klingon. "You are starting to bleed." And then, "Does this hurt you? Do you want to cry out? Cry to me, Vulqangan, and I will stop."

But Spock would not cry out. And so the whip fell again and again, until he felt faint with pain and dangerously closer to tears than Torlath might have imagined. Then, unexpectedly, the whip caught him around the legs. Spock lurched off-balance and collapsed on the floor. It was a moment before he could gather his strength and rise shakily to his knees, and even longer before he could bring himself to stand and face the wall again. But the whip remained silent.

Torlath moved near and studying Spock's downcast eyes, fingered the stubble that had begun to show on his face. At the revolting touch Spock felt his control start to slip. Somehow he held himself still, all but his eyes, which turned up and beheld the Klingon with sheer loathing.

Torlath snarled. Digging his fingers into Spock's hair, he shoved him against the wall. "Khoh! Fool! Do you not know that your life is in my hands?" He hefted the black snake speculatively and his snarl faded into a cruel mockery of a smile. "Tomorrow is soon enough, my stubborn Vulqangan. For now I will let you savor your pain and dream of the many hard lessons still to come."

oooo

For a time the lashings came daily. Under the tutelage of Torlath's whip, Spock gradually relearned some of the icy impassivity of his Kolinahr years. Stray evidence of his feelings no longer leapt from his eyes at inconvenient moments. As his beard grew, he locked his emotions down tight and pushed the Genesis fears into a corner hidden deep inside, too deep even to resurface in nightmares. He learned the proper times to stand, to bow, to kneel, and he obeyed Torlath promptly, saying "Yes, my lord" as smoothly as he had once said "Yes, Captain". To all appearances he became a model slave.

Finally a day passed without a beating, and another day, and then three. On the fourth day Torlath took Spock out of the basement and gave him work. Each morning he was allowed upstairs to clean the kitchen. When the women finished with him, he was sent outdoors to split firewood and tend a vegetable garden as well as the herd animals that were kept for food.

Spock appreciated these hours in the open air, however hard the labor, however cold and damp the weather. When the sun shone he worked the soil into rich loamy rows, inhaling the pleasant fragrance, losing himself in the simple but constructive activity. As the days passed, he began to take some small pleasure in being alive again—even if it was only the life of a Klingon slave. But though his circumstances improved, his thoughts were never far from T'Beth. As he worked, his eyes frequently scanned the windows of the house. Where was she being kept? It worried him that he never saw her.

He was at the livestock barn raking the yard clear of waste when Torlath came to check on his work. As always, the Klingon wrinkled his nose at the odor and looked about for something to criticize. Inside the enclosure, the milling herd animals snorted at Torlath's scent and backed away. Like tribbles, they tended to shy from Klingons. Spock reached down to stroke one of the speckled goat-like creatures and she nuzzled his hand, hungry for attention.

Watching, Torlath's eyes narrowed. "You like these khaadi, Vulqangan."

"Yes, my lord," Spock admitted. He hoped Torlath would not be displeased. He had not merited more than a slap from any Klingon for days. Things were going so well that he had almost decided to approach Torlath regarding T'Beth.

Torlath merely grunted and began to leave. Spock knew he might never find the Klingon in a more tolerant mood. Strengthening his resolve, he ran after him and said, "Please, my lord—"

Torlath turned to find him kneeling on the damp ground. Spock focused on the familiar buckle with its sinister knot of snakes. "My lord, may I request a favor of you?"

Torlath's shaggy eyebrows climbed in amusement. "Speak, bold one. You will soon know if you offend me."

"My lord—" Spock's throat tightened. "I mean no offense, but if…if it please my lord…I would like very must to visit my daughter."

For a moment Torlath just stared at him. Then throwing back his great head, he bellowed with laughter. "If it _please_ my lord," he mimicked, "I mean no _offense_ , my lord!"

Spock's control slipped. Only the thought of T'Beth kept him from the Klingon's throat. It was not yet time for that—but surely there would come a day when he would consign the swaggering Klingon to death.

Abruptly Torlath's laughter ended. A heavy boot caught Spock in the chest, knocking him into the dirt. Torlath towered over him in black Klingon rage. "So you want to see your child! You khesting dog, will _I_ ever see _my_ child again? Will I?"

Spock did not know how to answer him. He lay on the ground waiting.

With trembling fingers Torlath unbuckled his serpent belt. Doubling the tough leather, he snapped it between his hands. "Stand!" he ordered.

The Klingon's muscular legs were within Spock's reach. He considered tripping Torlath and delivering a blow to his groin. Gutter tactics, but effective. Then, the kill. He thought about eluding the other Klingons and finding T'Beth. Locating and stealing the Klingon vessel. Escaping from an unknown position through enemy Space. With each step the odds against success swiftly mounted in his mind. _Unacceptable. Not now. Not yet._

Spock stood. In the last instant, as he braced for the impact of the leather, something made him turn his head. His eyes were on the house when the strap connected. Then there was no way to look again, to even think of who he might have seen at an upstairs window, of who might now be watching this. Torlath wielded the belt like a madman. With one powerful swipe he ripped away Spock's shirt, exposing the freshly healed skin on his back. Khaadi squealed and bolted around the corral as he flayed Spock mercilessly.

"Sakh!" Torlath roared, beating him into the dirt. "Cry like your stinking animal friends!"

Tucking down his head, Spock swallowed the pain of each punishing blow. His body already belonged to the Klingon. He dared not also surrender his spirit. However much he might have longed for such a release, he would not cry out.

Torlath lashed him one last time, then strapped on his belt and jerked Spock upright. "Cry!" hissed the Klingon.

A huge palm cracked across Spock's face, and again, and again, until blood streamed from his nose and his mind fogged with pain and dizziness. But he did not cry out. Enraged, Torlath dragged him into the house and down the basement stairs. Kicking Spock into his room, he slammed the door shut on him.

Some time later Spock found himself in the spa. He had no memory of getting there, of picking himself up off the floor and disrobing. Yet he could see his dirt-stained pants crumpled beside the bath. He felt bewildered, but since fal-tor-pan he had grown accustomed to moments of bewilderment. Holding his breath, he slipped under and let the hot water soothe and cleanse his battered face. He surfaced to find a young woman standing nearby. She was light-skinned for a Klingon, with finely cast features beneath the knobs and whorls of her forehead.

She held out a towel and beckoned to him. "Khaadi-man…khighosh."

Spock hesitated. It did not help that she may have already seen him unrobed. It only added to his embarrassment, his resentment, at the invasion of his personal privacy. He had to remind himself that there were no such considerations between master and slave. With downcast eyes, he climbed out and wrapped the towel around his waist.

The woman made no move to touch him. "Khaadi-man," she said in a soft voice.

He ventured another glance at her face. Startled, he gave her a more lingering look. Something very much like compassion shone from her black eyes. It had been so long since anyone had looked on him kindly, as someone worthy of respect. And with that thought came a sharp stirring of memory…a vision of another woman whom he had held and kissed aboard the Enterprise. Kind, lovely, golden—yes, he remembered now. Her name was Lauren and she was a doctor. Did she remember him?

The Klingon woman pointed to clean clothing on his bed. She followed and watched as he drew his pants on under cover of the towel. When he reached for his shirt, she stopped him with a gentle touch and gestured for him to lie down.

Spock openly searched her face, wondering where the next moments might take him. Was this really a Klingon who was not brutal? Even so, he did not want her touching him. But he was a slave, he was in her power. Naked to the waist, he stretched out stiffly on the bedcover. The woman came to him holding a small vial. Pouring a bit of its contents into her dark palm, she carefully applied the oily lotion to the bruises on his face. As she worked the lotion over his cheekbones and lips, the soreness began to fade. Her fingertips lingered over his pointed Vulcan ears, but there was no disdain in her manner, only curiosity. From there she moved down his neck and shoulders, and turning him onto his stomach, smoothed lotion over the tender welts on his back. When she had attended to every reasonable inch of skin, Spock sat up.

Gently but firmly she pushed him back down. "Ghobe," she said, covering him with a blanket.

"I do not understand," Spock told her.

She frowned at him. "Ji yajbe."

They looked at one another. If there was a Klingon word for "thank you", Spock did not know it. While many Klingons learned Standard, few members of the Federation spoke the language. Someday that situation might change, but for now Spock could only gaze at the woman in silent gratitude. For a moment longer her warm eyes studied him, then she was gone.

Spock put on his shirt and lay back again, analyzing the strange encounter. After a short while a sound at the door drew his attention. Expecting Torlath, he rose quickly and prepared to kneel. A girl entered the basement—a pale-looking wraith in an oversized Klingon dress, eyes wide as a timid khree pup. Spock's heart leaped as he rushed forward and caught his daughter in a most unVulcan hug.

T'Beth answered with a fierce squeeze that hurt his back. "Oh, Father," she groaned.

The sound of her voice tore at him. Tipping back her jaw, he searched her angry, tearful face. "T'Beth," he said softly, urgently, "T'Beth-kam…are they treating you well?"

She pulled away and glared at him. "Father, how could you? Cringing in the dirt like some…some whipped animal! Not even trying to fight back!"

So she was the one watching from the window. She had seen.

"Why?" she demanded. "Why did you kneel to him? Why did you let him hit you?"

Spock thought it best to keep that information to himself. "Never mind that. Tell me one thing, quickly. Was it a woman who brought you here? Young, light-skinned?"

"Yes! So what?" She grabbed his arm with both hands and pulled. "Come on, we'll try and escape together. I can't stand it anymore."

Spock gently disengaged her fingers. "The time isn't right. Be patient, T'Beth. We may be gaining an ally among the Klingons."

"You act like you're afraid." She looked very frightened herself. "You should've warned the pilot. None of this would have happened if you'd warned him!"

Spock met her rising hysteria with a calmness he did not feel. "T'Beth, listen to me. I _did_ speak to Captain Selak. But no one could have known—"

The door opened. The gentle Klingon woman motioned for T'Beth to leave. At her signal T'Beth's eyes filled with fresh tears. "Father," she said in a choked voice.

But it was too late. Discord had spoiled their brief moment together.

oooo

Two days passed before Spock was allowed out of the basement again. It was a gray, drizzly morning. Icy gusts bent the treetops and sent leaves flying through the air. Shivering in his thin, damp clothes, he made quick work of the yard, and then went into the crudely constructed barn. Wind rushed between the ill-fitting logs and the front opening, which had no door. But on days like this the space was made a little warmer by the khaadi crowding together inside.

Spock picked up a rake and worked slowly. Out here there was no one to snarl orders, no one to strike or harass him in other ways. Klingons preferred seeing khaadi only on their dinner table, and by the look of these fat shaggy beasts, they would soon be filling Klingon bellies.

As Spock measured feed into the troughs, the khaadi mobbed him like hungry children. Standing back, he watched them eat and wondered if there was not some way to save them from slaughter. It seemed very important that these innocent animals, these fellow captives, escape death.

"Khaadi-man…" spoke a soft voice.

Spock turned, looked around. Perhaps it had only been the wind. He picked up the rake and resumed working.

"Khaadi-man," he heard again.

This time he saw her. From out of a shadowy corner of the barn came the Klingon woman, a cloak on her arm. The khaadi milled nervously. Without a word she approached him and draped the spotted fur over his shoulders.

"Warm," she said in heavily accented Standard.

Spock inclined his head. "Khi-ja. Yes. You are most kind."

She shrugged, her great dark eyes alive with that wonderful compassion so alien to this place. Spock drew a little closer. He could feel the warmth of her body, feel the kindly aura of her mind beckoning to him. _Dare he take this any further?_ The wind moaned through the logs and the khaadi made contented sounds as they devoured their feed. Reaching a decision, Spock slowly raised his right hand and poised his calloused fingers near her cheek. She stood as if waiting for his touch, as if she also desired the communication it could bring.

Spock weighed and reweighed the risks of this particular "Vulcan mental treachery" against the possibility of gaining information necessary for an escape. T'Beth had said, _you act like you're afraid._ Yes—he _was_ frightened. One wrong move and they would both be crushed down and beaten into the dirt. Yet…if this woman was as sympathetic as she seemed, if she was truly inclined to help them…

Spock touched her face. She jumped slightly, and then grew very still. He traced his fingertips over the soft brown skin, upward, toward the wide but trusting eyes, the delicately knobbed brow. "This will not hurt," he told her. And gently, very gently, he reached into her mind, and the shadows of the barn fell away…

 ** _Trust me. I will not harm you._**

 _I hear you! In my thoughts!_

 _ **We are one and together**_ _…_ and as one, Spock experienced her sorrow for her glory-seeking father. Silent weeping for Kruge because Kirk had killed him. Weeping for her grandfather's blood-vengeance and cruelty. _This cannot help. This cannot bring my father back. So wrong, so very wrong…_

 _ **Torlath wants Kirk because he killed Kruge…but it was in self-defense.**_

 **** _I know. It does not matter. Torlath will have all of you._

 _ **Not if you help.**_

 ** _…_** Spock felt her fear, felt her mind starting to pull away. But he could not let her go yet. Hurriedly he searched for the location of T'Beth's room, but found many locations. And there were the names of many men and women, many duties and schedules. And as for the ship…

 _Leave me alone!_

Her mind's cry pierced Spock's concentration and a stirring of decency intervened, a grave admonition of conscience echoing from a distant time and place. A Vulcan never used force. A telepath never violated the mind of another. Reluctantly Spock moved apart and watched Lanya break down and sob into her hands. Yes, her name was Lanya. Backing away from him, she turned and fled, scattering the khaadi in her path.

oooo

All that day Spock waited, each cold creeping hour filled with self-recrimination. However sympathetic Lanya might be, she was Torlath's granddaughter, blood kin, and Spock had upset her badly. There seemed little chance that his reckless probe into her mind would go unpunished. The thought of T'Beth under torture made Spock's stomach churn.

Night came, with still no sign that today was different from any other. After the Klingons ate dinner, Spock received a plate of scraps on the kitchen hearth. Eyes downcast, he sat quietly on the warm stone and forced down the food. He pretended not to notice how the two Klingon women leered at him as they went about their work. Lately they were becoming quite bold in their interest. He looked forward to the privacy of his basement room. Standing, he hoped to be "put away", but instead a hulking woman shoved him toward the back door.

"Kharaz!" she demanded. "Kharaz dah!"

 _Firewood?_ Confused by the command, Spock hesitated. There was plenty of dry firewood beside the hearth. He had already made sure of that.

"Khip!" growled the woman, and she slapped him. The force of the blow threw Spock against a cabinet. She laughed.

Picking himself up, he went out to gather a load of kharaz from a lean-to behind the barn. A storm had settled in with the coming of darkness. The wind blew hard and it was raining. Sheltered by the lean-to, h filled his wood sling slowly, stopping often to gaze at the lighted windows of the house. _Where was she? Where were they keeping her tonight?_

Thoroughly chilled, he hoisted the bulging sling over his shoulder and straightened. His eyes detected a great dark shape at one end of the corral. A tree was down. Setting the sling aside, he sloshed barefoot through the icy mud to investigate. Two fenceposts were shattered, but the fallen tree limbs tangled in the boards were probably dense enough to keep the khaadi confined overnight.

As Spock studied the storm damage, he thought of captivity and enslavement, of Vulcan principles and the dignity of life. And there was a part of him that inwardly smiled at the thought of inconveniencing his brutal captors. He glanced around to make certain no one was watching. Then swiftly and efficiently he enlarged the gap in the dangling boards.

Back at the house, Spock stacked the wood in the shelter of the porch and rinsed his feet under a faucet. Then he opened the kitchen door. Shrieking in Klingonese, the two women pounced on him. For a terrible instant Spock thought his act of sabotage had been observed, but it soon became clear that they were interested only in removing his dripping wet clothes. As their powerful, determined hands tugged at him, Spock tried to keep himself covered. The larger Klingon delivered a blow that set his ear ringing. The shorter, but no less muscular female yanked at his shirt. The soggy fabric tore away from his shoulders.

Once again Spock saw no recourse but to yield, whatever their whims. Endure. He _must_ endure. But accepting that bitter fact did not ease his humiliation. Then he glimpsed Lanya watched at a doorway and his face burned still hotter. Was she behind this? Was Lanya using her comrades to punish him for intruding on her mind?

He let go of what remained of his shirt. The delighted women stroked and explored his chest before turning their attention to the cord that fastened his pants. Their dark fingers fumbled over the strange Vulcan knot.

"Ghuy'cha'!" Lanya's shout startled everyone. Hissing in rapid Klingonese, she swooped into the kitchen and spat in his face. The other women stepped back and stared, open-mouthed.

Lanya eyed Spock with smoldering disdain. "Tokh, Vulqangan! Ha', mod!" Roughly seizing him by the hair, she pulled him all the way down to the basement. With the door securely closed, she let go.

Spock assumed the humble posture of a kneeling slave, head bowed low. Perhaps he had been rescued, or perhaps he had been brought below for a more private reckoning. For now Lanya's intention was unclear. He dared not wipe the spittle from his beard. He dared not raise his eyes to meet hers. The wrenching play of emotions on Lanya's face was lost to him as she turned and walked out the door.

oooo

Later that night, the lights came on in Spock's room. He awoke with a pounding heart and found his daughter standing beside the bed—pallid, thin, haunted looking. Throwing back the covers, he sat up, and she put her arms around him.

"T'Beth'kam," he said, gently stroking her dark hair. He wanted to say so much more.

She nestled her cheek against his shoulder and sighed. "We're never going to make it home. It's all my fault. The trip—I wanted everything to be so perfect."

"It is _not_ your fault," he soothed. "You must not give up hope. Your being here proves the Klingon woman is continuing to help us. We'll find a way to escape." She raised her head and looked at him through desolate eyes. "I will not fail you," he promised, but the hollow words brought neither of them any comfort.

In a moment the visit was over.

oooo

Spock was still awake when the door burst open and the lights came on again. Torlath charged in, and his mood was ugly. "Get up, Vulqangan fool!" he roared. "You have lost the khaadi! Every stinking one of them!"

His gut twisting, Spock slid from bed to his knees. "My lord, forgive me. How can this have happened?"

"The wind!" Torlath bellowed. "A tree uprooted and fell into the enclosure. The beasts ran free. They were in your charge, khaadi-lover. You are responsible!"

So his sabotage had not been detected. Spock experienced a moment of sharp relief. Head bowed, he waited in silence for the inevitable beating.

"On your feet!" Torlath ordered. "Do you think to lounge here in comfort while Klingons tramp through the forest after those miserable beasts? You and you alone will find them, all of them! In three days you will have thirty-two fat khaadi in that enclosure. And do you know why, my khesting Vulqan breed?"

Spock stood before the Klingon, his eyes downcast. "Because, my lord, you desire it?"

Torlath walked up to him. Almost gently he buried his fingers in Spock's shaggy hair, then clenched them. Forcing Spock's head up, he looked deep into the impassive Vulcan eyes. "I will explain it to you," he said softly. "For every khaadi still missing, every khaadi not safely returned, your pretty daughter will receive ten lashes. Simple—do you not agree?"

oooo

The air was cool and sweet smelling. Each leaf, each blade of grass had been washed clean by the rain, but Spock scarcely noticed the beauty around him as he prowled through the Klingon forest. All his senses were focused on the hunt. Signs of khaadi…tracks…spoor…scent of khaadi. He must find each of them, quickly. T'Beth must not be made to suffer for his foolish act of rebellion.

All through the day he stalked khaadi, until the light faded and the shadows grew into darkness and strange constellations appeared in the sky. Hungry and chilled, he came back and repaired the corral for his seven recaptured beasts.

Early the next morning Spock took his rope into the west woods and tracked for long, discouraging hours before finding a single khaadi. But in the next hour he found a flock of five, so now there were thirteen. He wandered southward until nightfall, catching another eight khaadi along the way. But after releasing them into the enclosure, Spock counted a total of twenty-three. Another khaadi had appeared out of nowhere. Who among the Klingons would help a slave? Who among the Klingons was gentle enough to even get near a skittish khaadi? The answer was self-evident. Lanya.

That night Spock lay awake, anxious to be on the move. There was so little time left and far, far too many khaadi still missing—ninety lashes worth. Even if Lanya were to help again, the odds against retrieving every last animal were miserably high. There was too much wilderness for one man to cover.

At dawn Spock headed north. Almost immediately he stumbled upon a narrow path that bore the tracks of many Klingon boots. Here was the opportunity he had been awaiting for weeks—a chance to reconnoiter, find the Klingon ship, formulate a plan of escape. But no khaadi would come near this trail with its hated scent of Klingons. Every minute spent here would leave T'Beth more vulnerable. Yet only a ship could free her from the threat of harm once and for all.

Spock followed the trail. It seemed longer than he remembered, or perhaps it was only his impatience with the careful pace he had to maintain in order to avoid detection. At last he came to a clearing. Deep imprints of landings formed puddles in the ground. All along the perimeter, a ship's thrusters had damaged the vegetation. But there was no ship. And by the look of things there had been no ship here for some time.

Blackness crept over Spock as he stared at the empty clearing. _What now?_ All his life he had believed in possibilities, but without a fully functioning vessel there could be no possibility of escape. That left only enslavement—forced labor, beatings, and endless degradation. _Or did it?_ A very tempting thought insinuated itself into Spock's mind. Was he not, in actuality, already free? No one was watching. No one was holding a weapon on him. He could easily keep walking and disappear into these woods forever. Torlath and his men would never find him alive. There were ways to make certain of that.

Then what of T'Beth? In the starliner lounge he had abandoned her at the mere suggestion of a Klingon presence. Would he leave her to the Klingons now? Had he really grown as cowardly as his daughter seemed to think?

Still another thought came, no less terrible for all its logic. Lanya would likely let T'Beth visit him again. In less than a minute he could end their suffering easily—a nerve pinch, a quick snap of T'Beth's neck, and her ordeal would be over. And then he would be free to kill himself.

Spock pushed the appalling image from his mind. Leaving the trail, he resumed his search for khaadi. The sun burned warm and bright as it rose up through the trees. The shadows shortened and disappeared. At the brow of a hill he stumbled upon a khaadi— _dead_. Turning from the half-eaten carcass, he sagged against a tree trunk. This was his doing. All his. Now T'Beth would pay dearly, and there was no way he would prevent it. But he could not stop searching now…

Once again Spock pulled himself from the dark spiral of despair, and straightened. There must be no surrender. As long as there was light in the day and breath in his body, he would try. And yes, even hope. And it was hope even more than logic that led him over the next rise to four willing khaadi. His fingers trembled as he roped them together, but the gentle beasts were patient with his clumsiness. They licked his hands and made soft noises in their throats until he gave them each a little rub and spoke to them.

They walked together through the warm, luckless afternoon, and sundown came without sighting another khaadi, living or dead. Five animals short, Spock headed back slowly, footsore and heavy of heart, but still searching. Twenty meters from the compound, a bush rustled and out jumped another khaadi. Dropping down on his knees, Spock grasped the little she-beast and it responded with a painful show of affection.

"Why do you trust in me?" he asked her. "Don't you know I am leading you to the slaughter?"

The five khaadi bounded back into their corral, happily giving up their brief experiment in freedom. His eyes searching the compound perimeters, Spock slowly closed and locked the gate. _It was over. The time was up._ For a moment the sickening reality of his failure threatened to overwhelm him.

Boot steps sounded in the bitter night, an immense shadow loomed across the yard. Spock turned. Torlath shoved him and his back slammed into the corral fence.

"Lazy dog!" spat the Klingon. "Why are you standing idle? Have you finished with the task I set for you?"

Shivering, Spock knelt in the mud. "Not…quite yet, my lord. I am sorry. If you could grant me another day."

"I am _sorry,"_ mimicked Torlath. "Tokh! You soon will _be_ sorry, I assure you! Get up and take count, you worthless piece of vekh!"

Torlath switched on the yard lights. Under his critical eyes Spock went into the enclosure and began counting the sleepy khaadi. There should only have been twenty-nine, but the count revealed one precious khaadi more. "Thirty, my lord," Spock reported, silently thanking Lanya for her latest gift.

On Torlath's order the count was repeated twice. Each time the numbers agreed. The Klingon's eye flamed. "Two missing! Two of my finest beasts!"

Spock doubted that Torlath could distinguish between any of the khaadi. But two animals were lost, one irretrievably, through Spock's deliberate act. What would be Torlath's fury if he knew the full truth? His head bowed, Spock followed Torlath into the house.

Lanya was in the kitchen. Casting Spock a wilting glance, she spoke to her grandfather. "Khaadi ghakh 'ar?"

"Wejmakh," growled Torlath.

Lanya made a sound of disgust. Her snarled comment completely overreached Spock's limited Klingon vocabulary. Torlath looked at her sourly and growled the Klingon equivalent of "shut up". Lanya went off in a pout. "Though there would a certain grim justice in roasting you," Torlath mused in Standard. "Kha!" Shaking his great knobbed head, he thrust Spock down the basement stairs. "You are more trouble than you are worth, my careless mongrel!"

The door closed behind Spock. The sound of Torlath's boots retreated into the distance. By now Spock should not have been surprised at anything, but finding clean clothes and food instead of a beating surprised him considerably. The short-term behavior of his captor was sometimes difficult to predict, but the long-term trend was unfailingly sadistic.

The knot of apprehension tightened in Spock's stomach. It was impossible to eat anything, impossible to think of anything but T'Beth in pain. Would he know when it happened? Would he be made to watch? Or would he be left to wonder, to guess, to imagine?

An hour passed with the slowness of torture. And then, a faint sound. Abruptly the wall screen came on, revealing a clear image of T'Beth and Torlath in her chamber. Spock tensed and moved nearer. Torlath loomed head and shoulders above the girl. Beside his Klingon mass she looked very young and frail and pathetically vulnerable.

Torlath turned toward the screen. "Vulqangan. Are you enjoying your evening? Let me present for you an added entertainment." From behind his back came the heavy snake that Spock knew so well. T'Beth stared at it, frightened but composed.

Spock became aware of his fists clenching. He started for the wall screen—then stopped in frustration. "No!" he shouted. "Please, my lord! It was _my_ carelessness— _I_ am the one at fault!"

They did not seem to hear him. Or see him. And Torlath had already bound her wrists and tied them to the tall bedpost. T'Beth stood trussed and defenseless against the brutish hand caressing her shoulder. Fury mounting, Spock watched her shudder and struggle to escape Torlath's touch.

"Such tender flesh," Torlath murmured, "lovely flesh, ripe and ready for the whip. See, Vulqangan?" With one fierce yank he ripped the back of her dress and T'Beth's naked skin was exposed to him.

"Father, don't look!" she cried out. "You'll only make it worse!"

A savage sound rose in Spock's throat. He rushed the basement door and wrenched at the handle. The lock held firm. Onscreen the images moved with the cold relentlessness of fate—Torlath flexing his whip, T'Beth shivering helplessly.

"Don't watch!" she begged again.

Baring his teeth, Spock applied all of his strength to the stubborn latch. He threw himself at the door and pummeled the unyielding wood until his hands bled, but he could not drown out the crack of the lash striking bare flesh…or the cries of pain. Sagging against the door, he closed his eyes… _and the cry alarmed him, until he realized it was a sound of delight, not pain. He saw the girl reaching toward something, entranced. Once again Spock's heart leaped in his side, and this time the gasp was his own. "T'Beth! No!"_

 _Somehow he caught up with her in time. Abruptly he turned her around to face him. "Touch nothing! Nothing! I told you that. You are eleven years old—old enough to listen!"_

 _At his sharp words, her eyes filled with tears. But they were alone in this corner of the children's park, with no Vulcan to observe her show of emotion, to see that he had made her cry…again._

 _Rellenting, Spock crouched before her in the warm, moist sand at water's edge. "Listen to me again," he said gently. "This is not like your Ildaran forests, where you could wander in safety during the daylight hours. This is not like the benign Earth parks you've read about. There is beauty in these Vulcan parks—yes—but also danger. That innocent-looking flower that interested you excretes a searing acid."_

 _This was supposed to have been a pleasant learning experience. He did not remember the park being so unnerving when he was a boy. But then, hadn't his own father hovered over him like an anxious shadow? And now T'Beth was eyeing that little spine lizard, the one that spits poison from ten paces…_

…Turning, Spock stared at the blank basement wall. The terrible images and sounds were gone now. Little by little the tension drained from his muscles, and his shoulders drooped in defeat. The room felt as empty and silent as deep Space.

In the end she had screamed. Under torture she cried out for him, but he had not saved her from a single lash. Now she lay huddled in an agony of pain and humiliation, and he could not even comfort her. He dared not even try. No amount of rationalization could ease the sense of failure, of uselessness.

It came as no surprise when the door opened. With a casual air of power Torlath crossed the room and stood before him, holding the accursed whip that had just savaged a child. There was no need for Torlath even to command it. Removing his shirt, Spock knelt before the Klingon, head down, expectant. He would absorb the punishment with the small twitchings of astonished nerves that never grew accustomed to the pain, but screamed their shock anew with each blow. The whip would fall until sweat ran down his body, until his fingernails drew blood from his own palms, until the room faded into a green haze and even the throb of guilt grew mercifully distant.

But Torlath mere looked down at him, silent and darkly amused.

 _Arrogant brute,_ Spock thought. And he said, "My lord," his voice catching, "why do you hesitate? Beat me, too."

"No," Torlath said.

"Why?"

"Because," Torlath replied, "you desire it." Coiling his whip, the Klingon turned and left the room.


	3. Chapter 3

In the morning Spock made himself rise from bed. He selected a few morsels from the plate of Klingon garbage and chewed them without appetite. The many weeks of abuse and poor nutrition were having their effect on his mind and body. Yet somehow, for T'Beth's sake, he must continue on. Somehow he must shake off the black malaise enough to function and perhaps even find a way out of this. But how? Once more he thought of his own deadly solution. A swift, final end for them both. Was it not preferable to torture? In his imagination he felt his hands on his daughter's neck, but there the horrendous image froze.

"So!" Torlath's dark head appeared at the door. "Sitting idle, are you? Come with me!"

Spock followed him outside. The chill of dawn sliced through his thin clothes. Already shivering, he walked barefoot over the frozen earth behind the warmly shod Klingon.

Torlath stopped and pointed. "Look there, fool!"

A lone khaadi bleated plaintively as it tried to wiggle its way into the security of the corral. Spock approached the confused animal and his mouth tightened at the thought of ten lashes on the back of his child, ten agonizing strokes of a Klingon whip while this mindless creature decided whether or not to come home. He seized it by the fur. Opening the gate with one hand, he thrust the squealing beast into the enclosure.

Torlath smirked and led the way into the barn where all thirty-one khaadi were packed together for warmth. At the sight of the Klingon they snorted in fear and backed into a corner.

"Stinking beasts!" Torlath's nose wrinkled in distaste. "I will be rid of some before you manage to lose any more. I will not be reduced to chewing roots like some khesting Vulqangan. Save ten healthy young females, and two rams. Slaughter the rest."

Spock's head came up. He looked at Torlath with open dismay. "Me? My lord, I am hardly qualified to…" His voice trailed off. Obviously Torlath was not listening. The huge Klingon was elbow deep in a storage bin, actively tossing out ropes, hooks, buckets, and a few other implements Spock could not identify. And hidden in that bin's darkest, most spidery corner was Lanya's cloak.

As Spock watched, Torlath went stiff and ceased his rummaging. Reaching a bit deeper into the bin, he drew out the spotted cloak. His face hardened as he stared at the khaadi fur. Swinging around, he confronted Spock. "What is this!"

Spock quickly lowered his eyes, erasing from them any sign of guilt or panic. "My lord—it appears to be an article of clothing."

Torlath stepped near, and one great hand pushed Spock to his knees. "Do not play games with me, Vulqangan. Tell me what you know of this cloak. Tell me _now!"_

Swallowing, Spock stared down at the heavy Klingon boots and decided on a half-truth. "My lord, I found it here in the barn."

"You _found_ it? You khesting little thief, you _stole_ it!"

The steely Klingon fingers bit into Spock's shoulder. Spock drew a breath. "I found it—my lord. And I was cold."

Torlath strode to the barn door and roared Lanya's name. After a slight delay she rushed in, and seeing her cloak in Torlath's hands, stopped short. Her grandfather said something to her. For a moment she looked flustered, and then she turned and flew at Spock. Shouting in Klingonese, she hit him in the face.

Torlath spoke sharply. He held out the cloak to her. Lanya snatched it from him and hurled it into the dirt. Torlath's great bulk seemed to expand. His black eyes narrowed at his defiant young granddaughter. Her jaw set tighter. Heated words were exchanged. Then, a moment of charged silence. Suddenly Torlath lashed out and struck her to the ground.

Looking on, Spock held himself still. He had expected Torlath's anger to target him, not his granddaughter. Did Torlath suspect that Lanya had been aiding him, or was there another reason for his harsh behavior?

Lanya picked up the discarded cloak and fled from the barn. With a grunt Torlath turned back to the bin and resumed his rummaging. "So she thinks the touch of your body has spoiled her precious cloak," he grumbled. "Careless wench! I wager she will not leave it lying around soon again."

With relief, Spock realized that Lanya had acted once more to protect him.

Meanwhile, Torlath found what he was looking for. "Up off your knees, cold one!" he barked. "A little work will warm you nicely!"

The first step in butchering was to select the victim. Every fiber of Spock's Vulcan being rejected the slaughter of animals for food, but he would sooner kill every one of these khaadi with his bare hands than have T'Beth suffer again for his rebellion. A dozen trusting noses nuzzled him as he walked among the herd. He tried without success to summon a little of the anger he had experienced out in the yard. Avoiding the creatures' eyes, he picked one up and held it against him while Torlath bound its hind legs.

"Pay attention," ordered the Klingon. "I intend to show you this only once."

With easy strength Torlath hook the khaadi to a support beam, and while it dangled upside-down squealing in terror, he drew a knife across its throat. Purple blood spattered into a pail waiting below. Slowly, very slowly, the animal's struggles weakened as its life bled away.

Spock swallowed a taste of bile. He watched without expression as Torlath's knife flashed over the dying khaadi, opening a clean slit from groin to breast… _and abruptly his mind took flight. There was another knife, another Klingon hand driving blade into flesh—human flesh. A young, fair-haired man staggered back and slumped to the ground…_

A kick from Torlath's boot brought Spock's mind back into focus. He found himself bend double, retching.

"Khi'yakh!" Torlath growled deep in his throat. "Are you too delicate to do even a woman's work? Perhaps I should shave your beard and take you into my bed!"

Spock drew in deep breaths and brought himself under control. Torlath continued skinning the animal. In a few short minutes the khaadi's steaming remains were divided into utilitarian piles.

With a mocking smile, Torlath turned and held out the knife. "Now, my thieving Vulqangan, let us see if you have been paying attention."

Spock looked at the gory blade presented to him. In his mental state Torlath's simple comment seemed layered with meaning, and life took on a peculiar irony. The slaughter of an animal had made him physically ill. Yet just now he could have slit this child beater's throat without a qualm. No—with _pleasure._ Did his lord and master know how near he stood to death? Yes, Torlath knew. The dark Klingon eyes mocked him. _Come ahead,_ they taunted. _Try it. Even succeed—and see what my people do to you and your lovely daughter._

With a subservient bow, Spock reached for the knife.

All through the day he tied and slit and emptied khaadi of their foul-smelling bowels. Clamping down on his nausea, he set his mind to hide-peeling and the carving of flesh. He carried countless buckets of warm blood to the kitchen for some vile, mysterious purpose. He stretched pelts. He buried refuse. He slaughtered and hauled meat until the living khaadi fled squealing from him as from a Klingon, until blood soaked into every pore and Spock doubted if any bath would ever cleanse him of this particular dirtiness.

Night came. Twelve surviving khaadi shivered in the dark enclosure, far from the barn with its scent of death. Alone inside, Spock worked by lamplight to clear away the last of the carnage. His body ached from the damp cold, from wrestling carcasses and heavy buckets all day, from sheer revulsion. At last he was done. Turning out the light, he wearily walked into the house. In the kitchen the women were still busy processing the results of his grim labor. No one bothered him as he descended the stairs to his room. The door locked automatically behind him. Stripping off his filthy clothes, he plunged into the heated spa. A circulating pump carried away the blood as it washed from his skin, keeping the water clear. He soaped his bearded face and scrubbed his hair and all of his body, twice over. Still he felt unclean, but no Klingon soap could remedy that.

After a good long soaking he climbed out, dried himself, and wrapped up in the towel as he headed for the warmth and comfort of bed. He never reached it. He stopped at the sound of the door opening. If he had been less tired he might have cursed aloud when Torlath walked in. "My lord," he said woodenly.

An odor assailed Spock's nostrils, a smell as revolting as any he had endured that day. He saw the steaming bowl in Torlath's hands and his throat tightened.

"You whine that you are cold," Torlath said, "then I find you lounging about in a towel. Get dressed!"

Spock quickly put on a clean pair of pants and a shirt, and stood before the Klingon in a posture of submission.

Torlath eyed him, his dark countenance unreadable. He set the bowl of Klingon food on the table where Spock usually ate. "It is the custom among my people to prepare a blood soup on the day of slaughter. No crusts for you today, Vulqangan. Eat." His eyes glinted. "You have earned it."

Numbly Spock moved to the table and sat down. He looked at the thick black soup. His breath caught in the foul steam and he felt his gorge rise. He swallowed hard, but his stomach stayed in his throat. "My lord," he said, "I appreciate your generosity…but Vulcans cannot eat the flesh of animals, or their blood."

"Cannot—or will not?" Torlath's voice was unusually mild. "Do not insult your Klingon hosts, halfbreed. Eat. Eat it all." He sat down across from Spock and made himself comfortable.

"My lord," Spock said, "I am sorry. I cannot."

Torlath shrugged. "Unfortunate…but no matter. I will save it for your daughter. After a month of fasting she will call it a feast." He reached for the bowl.

"I will eat it," Spock said hoarsely.

Again Torlath shrugged with apparent indifference. He drew his hand back. "As you please, Vulqangan."

Inwardly bracing, Spock picked up the spoon. The first swallow made his stomach heave. Somehow he swallowed. Somehow the disgusting mess went down. As he reached for another bite he broke out in a cold sweat… _and T'Beth was hugging a sack in rapture. She said, "Chocolate bars from Earth! Hershey's! Oh, Father, look what Uhura gave me!"_

 _Spock hesitated to interfere. But considering T'Beth's physiology, he found her passion for sugary treats even more unseemly than her appetite for animal flesh. He watched her tear into a wrapper with all the tremulous urgency of an addict. Taking a bite, she closed her eyes and breathlessly savored the melting chocolate until Spock said, "That is enough. I cannot permit you to eat any more."_

 _T'Beth froze. "Why? Everyone eats candy."_

 _"You are not everyone," Spock pointed out. "You are part Vulcan. Your body will convert refined sugar to alcohol, like mine."_

 _T'Beth glowered at him. "I ate candy on Ildarani. You never want me to have any fun!"_

 _Spock sighed. "That is not true. Alcohol would negatively affect your mental function. How much chocolate have you eaten?"_

 _T'Beth hurled the bag of candy at his feet. "You're mean! I wish I was back on Ildarani! Why did Mama have to die?" With a sob she turned and ran for the door._

 _Spock winced…_

 _…_ and choked down another vile bite. It was almost finished now. One, perhaps two, mouthfuls left. Dipping back into the bowl, he swallowed the foul dregs and then put down his spoon and sat in silence.

"Are you not going to thank me?" Torlath picked up the empty bowl and stood.

"Thank you," Spock said through his nausea, "my lord."

Torlath threw back his head and howled with laughter. Then, as often happened, his wrath descended like a nerve-shattering thunderclap. With one savage kick he splinter Spock's chair and sent him sprawling. " _Thank you my lord,"_ he taunted. "You khesting little thief! Where is it!"

Stunned, Spock raised his head from the floor. "My lord—I do not understand. To what are you referring?"

"The _knife_ , you ass!"

For a confused moment Spock wondered if he had inadvertently brought the knife downstairs with him. Then he remembered. "My lord. I left it in the kitchen with the last of the meat." Yes, that is what he had done. He had wanted to be rid of it, to be free of its glittering temptation.

Torlath's face blackened. " _Liar!"_

Spock was surprised at what pain that single word could inflict, even now. It overshadowed every other discomfort as Torlath's iron hands locked onto his arm, slammed him against the gray wall, and held him in place.

"The knife is not there!" Torlath bellowed. "Not in the kitchen, not in the barn! Could it be, fool, that you are thinking to cut my throat?"

That, Spock could not deny—but only that, even if it cost him every inch of his skin. "My lord," he repeated, "I do not have your knife."

Torlath's eyes glimmered with a rage bordering on madness. Keeping one hand on Spock, he reached into his tunic. Out flashed a slim blade, a dagger honed sharp and deadly. The Klingon touched its razor point to Spock's throat. "Now, dog, the famed Vulqan truth!"

Spock drew a slow breath, knowing it might be his last. The pressure on his throat increased. He felt the cold bite of steel set his blood seeping. "My lord," he spoke, "I have told you—"

Torlath's muscles corded. The blade slashed downward and across, leaving a wounded path under the long tear in Spock's shirt. The sting of a playful claw, the LeMatya toying with its prey while death closed in. Torlath's blade hand rose again and Spock closed his eyes. _Forgive me, daughter, I did not want to leave you here alone…_

"Vavni!" A clear young voice rang out, "Vavni, taj tu'!"

Spock felt Torlath's grip on him slacken. He opened his eyes and found the blade poised an inch from his throat, and Lanya at the door holding the lost butcher knife.

"Khe'," she said. She had found it in the kitchen. It had only been misplaced, after all.

Torlath growled. There was no hint of apology in the sound or in the way he hurled Spock to the floor, a bleeding discard. "Khoh!" he spat. "Worthless garbage! Not even your friend Kirk gives a damn about you!"

Spock lay unmoving on the stone floor, drawing its brittle strength into himself. Words were only words. Pain was a thing of the mind. Control the mind and—

The door slammed. He was alone. Somehow he made it to the toilet before his stomach emptied. He retched into the basin until his throat felt raw and his insides ached and he trembled with a loathing more poisonous than the Klingon's abominable soup. When at last the sickness eased, he splashed cool water over his face and soothed his slashed chest with a damp towel. He did not bother to change his shirt. Exhausted, he dropped into bed, but the day's many shocks and humiliations kept his mind unsettled long after his stomach quieted. The night was half gone before he slipped into a restless sleep _…and he dreamt of blood, the Vulcan's noble blood drained dry from his veins by Klingon serpents. It its place flowed something dirty. His mind seethed with bitter thoughts of cruelty and revenge. Looking back on who Spock had once been, he laughed aloud, a sickening sound. He took one of the snakes into his hand and used it to whip the proud Starfleet Spock, feeling each lash in his own body, infuriated by the pain._

 _"Cry!" he demanded. "Cry to me and I will stop!" But the uniformed Vulcan only looked at him with pity and remained silent._

 _A thunderous voice rolled in the distance. At the dreaded sound Spock dropped the snake-whip and fell to his knees. The voice rumbled closer. Torlath's angry face appeared in the roiling sky. "Vulqangan! What are you doing to yourself!"_

 _Full of rage, Spock rose up and faced the vision, his fists clenched. "No! It is you! It is what you are doing to me!"_

…The answering explosion jolted Spock straight up in bed. Pale light spilled from the open basement doorway. There was a drift of smoke, something moving, a sound of footsteps. The beam of a flashlight cut across his face and passed on. A shadowy form glided up beside him. _Torlath?_

"My lord…" he began but did not know what more to say.

"Spock," a voice spoke breathlessly. "Spock, it's me!"

Recognition struck like a thunderbolt—yet it was impossible! "Jim?" he questioned.

Hands caught him, rough in the urgency of their welcome, and then there was no doubt. Reaching out, Spock felt his Vulcan defenses start to crumble.

"Spock, we've got T'Beth. She's waiting in the Bird-of-Prey—the one we captured at Genesis. Your father got us everything we needed—parts, fuel, supplies—but it took time. So much to figure out, so much to plan—" The rush of words choked off.

And in the dark Spock clung to him and wept.

oooo

The electricity was out. The Klingon's primary power source had been disrupted in the first moments of the attack. Holding Kirk's flashlight, Spock purposefully picked his way through the unconscious bodies strewn around the house.

"Come on," urged Kirk, strange looking in his Klingon uniform, phaser at ready. "Spock, there's no time for this. You say they have a ship somewhere. These people might have sent up an alert."

"Perhaps," Spock agreed, "but they will not be expecting a fully cloaked Bird-of-Prey." He came upon a female form crumpled in a hallway. Bending down, he made Lanya's body more comfortable, and then brushed her bruised face and sleeping mind in a brief farewell. She would recover from the heavy phaser stun. She would know that he appreciated her kindness.

Kirk pulled out a communicator. "Spock. We have to beam out of here."

Spock swept the flashlight over the area one last time. Its beam settled on a hulking Klingon wearing a serpent belt. Loathing welled up.

"That's him?" Kirk guessed. "Kruge's father?"

Spock nodded, fingers itching to break the thick Klingon neck. He did not even stop to consider. The flashlight dropped and he was going for Torlath, but Kirk's hands caught him and held on. They briefly struggled in the shadows. Then gripping Spock hard by the shoulders, Kirk met his eyes head-on. "No! It's over! We're leaving!"

Spock yielded to the admiral's command. Suppressing the killing urge, he stood aside. There was a thing or two he would have liked to tell Kirk, but later for that. Suddenly he, too, could not wait to get out of here. He was still working to contain his emotions when they materialized in a Klingon transporter room manned by a portly soldier in the uniform of the Empire. Instinctively Spock froze before recognizing Mister Scott's smiling face. Also in Klingon black, Doctor McCoy slowly crossed the room toward him. Except for the clothing they all looked so…unchanged. It made Spock acutely aware of his own rough appearance.

McCoy reached the platform and stepped up. Tears shone in his eyes as he searched Spock's haggard face—the uncombed shag of hair, the beard, the telltale bruises, the deep inner scarring not even a Vulcan could conceal. Shakily the doctor said, "Can't stay out of trouble for a minute, can you?"

Kirk spoke up. "Scotty, let's get this Klingon crate off the ground.

"Aye," Scott beamed, heading for the control cabin. "With pleasure!"

Kirk and McCoy got off the platform. Spock, too, stepped down and tried to shake a feeling of displacement as he gazed into a dim connecting corridor. He asked, "Where is T'Beth?"

McCoy's expression became grave. "In the sleeper cabin. I…just finished giving her a preliminary exam." He hesitated, his sharp eyes taking stock of Spock's gaping, bloodstained shirt. "It's high time I look at you, too."

There was a sound of engines engaging. The ship vibrated noisily. As it rose into the air, creaking, the three men moved to the wall and gripped handrails.

"Not now, Doctor," Spock said loudly enough to be heard. He had no intention of letting McCoy's medscanner anywhere near him. "If you will just show me to the sleeper cabin…"

Kirk looked at McCoy and nodded. "Get him some decent clothes first, and something for his feet. The rest can wait."

oooo

Spock felt distinctly uncomfortable in the clothes he had been given—black Klingon boots and pants and an officer's tunic from ship's supplies. It was, McCoy had said apologetically, the only thing available. Spock would almost rather have gone without.

He stopped at the sleeper cabin and pushed his hair out of his eyes before knocking.

"Who is it? T'Beth called softly.

"Your father," he replied.

There followed a long pause, and he thought perhaps she was coming to open the door. Then she said, "Not now…"

Spock stared at the door. Now that the horror of their captivity was over, he would see T'Beth's condition for himself. He entered, wondering what he would find. T'Beth lay on one of several bunks in the cramped, unadorned cabin. Her eyes widened at the sight of his Klingon uniform, then she turned her head away.

"T'Beth," he said.

She made a small noise in her throat but would not meet his eyes, and no wonder. He had knelt before a Klingon. He had meekly accepted beatings and all manner of abuse. Worst of all, he had been unable to save her from Torlath's whip.

"We are safe," he spoke into the silence. "This ship is equipped with a cloaking device. The Klingons will be unable to track us."

Shifting position, she let her hand fall to the floor. Spock cast about for some way to draw her out, to make her say what was on her mind. It was not like her to be silent. Finally he asked, "How is your back?"

"Better," she said somberly. Nothing more.

Spock nodded to himself. Around them the ship groaned in protest as it sped undetected through Klingon territory. "T'Beth," he said with effort, "however difficult, you must tell me…how you were treated."

To his dismay, she turned to the wall and curled up. His first impulse was to draw back and leave her in privacy, but sensing her distress, he could not hold himself apart. Settling onto her bunk, he firmly turned T'Beth toward him.

"Look at me," he said, but her eyes remained stubbornly averted.

She shook her head and tears spilled down her cheeks. "I can't. I just want to be alone."

A Vulcan would not have been disturbed by the words. A Vulcan would have left her alone to deal with her emotions. But just now Spock was feeling more like a father than a Vulcan, with a parent's fears creeping through his veins.

"T'Beth—" His voice grew strained. "I am…sorry that I couldn't do more to protect you. I did what I thought best…but it was not enough."

Finally she looked at him, her eyes full of anguish. "Oh Father," she moaned, "the slave-act—it was for me, wasn't it? I should have known. But maybe I always knew. Maybe the knowing just hurt too much."

 _Yes,_ Spock considered. There could be much pain in knowing, but also in not knowing—in weeks and weeks of grinding uncertainty when even the stars seemed hidden. "My lord," he said bitterly. "My _honorable_ lord Torlath assured me that my subservience would buy your safety and comfort." He held back, openly dreading the inevitable but necessary end of his own uncertainty. "Were you kept safe? Were you kept comfortable?"

T'Beth's miserable blushed was in itself a horrible kind of answer. She read the pained lines of is face, saw he was waiting for her to sink the blade of truth, waiting to hear from her what he could not bring himself to ask. Tears gushed like the breaking of a dam. "Oh God, he made me…made me _do_ things… _awful_ things. He said he'd kill you if…if I didn't. He said he'd beat you to death…"

 _Things. Awful things._ Blindly Spock turned aside and clenched his calloused hands into fists. He had let himself trust the word of a barbarian. He had struck a bargain with a Klingon devil, and lost. He had failed his young daughter completely. "Torlath—" How bitter was the name. "He…forced his attentions on you?"

T'Beth's voice shook. "I _had_ to do what he said! I couldn't think of any way to stop him—I had to or else—"

Spock thought of Torlath abusing his daughter. With rising fury he thought of the brutish Klingon touching T'Beth, coercing her, roughly demanding what she was too young to give, even willingly. No doubt a fine source of amusement on tedious days. A daughter of the house of Surak turned into a pleasure slave, a sexual plaything for a vulgar, sadistic animal.

Spock swept to his feet. But there was no target for his rage—no iron bones to shatter, no dark gloating flesh to pound. Here, Torlath was safe from him. Kirk had seen to that. "Filthy, lying—" Spock tore the hated Klingon tunic from his body and hurled it to the deck.

Her eyes wide with fright, T'Beth pressed against the wall. "No," she sobbed.

Spock turned and found the cabin door open. Kirk stood with mouth agape, having seen his display of temper and the lash scars on his back. Uttering a Vulcan curse, Spock snatched a blanket from a bunk and covered himself. "What are you looking at?" he snapped.

Kirk glanced at T'Beth softly crying on her bed, then again at Spock. "Sorry," he said just above a whisper, "I…didn't mean to—"

Before he could finish, Spock charged past him and disappeared into the corridor. For an uncomfortable moment Kirk wavered, unsure of who he should go to, or if he should just quietly slink back to the cockpit. But he could not walk away from a child—or a friend—in pain.

"T'Beth," he said at last, "are you going to be alright?"

She sniffed and held tight to her pillow. "I'm so afraid," she choked out. "I just want to die…"

Kirk did not understand. Sitting beside the girl, he took her into his arms. Her thin body shook alarmingly as it nestled against him. Softly he said, "We can't let you do that. We all love you way too much, kiddo." And he thought, _so help me, Spock, if you've done anything to hurt her, after what she's gone through…_ And he did not even care to guess what both she and her father had endured—as living bait—for him. He mind recoiled from all the monstrous possibilities. "It's going to be okay,' he promised. "It'll all get better now."

"No it won't," she countered, "not anymore. Not without my father."

Kirk took her tear-streaked face into his hands. "What kind of talk is that? You're just upset—and so is he."

Dull with despair, her hazel eyes turned from him. He let her go and she buried her face in her pillow.

But Kirk was not about to give up. Whatever else might be said about Birds-of-Prey, the Klingon vessels were sleekly compact, every inch pared down to the absolute essentials. No wasted space aboard, no place to hide. Kirk headed down the single curving corridor and soon found what he was looking for in a storage room. He stopped just inside the doorway—a relatively safe distance from his Vulcan friend. In view of Spock's behavior on the planet and that outburst in the sleeper cabin, he did not know what to expect.

"Spock," he said.

The unkempt Vulcan stared fixedly at nothing in particular, the fingers of one hand biting into a metal shelf, the other hand keeping a firm grip on his blanket.

Kirk fortified himself with a deep breath. "Spock…I didn't mean to violate your privacy. I started to knock and the door just popped open. It's these damn Klingon—" But what was the use? Spock might have been made of stone. Kirk shook his head in exasperation. "I don't get it. T'Beth is a basket case, and you're in here staring at a wall? She _needs_ you."

Spock gave him a frigid look, but Kirk was too angry to be chilled by it.

Pain briefly flickered in the Vulcan eyes. "You were saying…about privacy."

Kirk stood his ground. "Spock, it ceases to be a matter of privacy when the welfare of a child is involved." With some relief he watched Spock's rigid stance soften.

"Indeed," Spock quietly said, "she is still very much a child. Far too young to have—" His voice broke off.

"Too young?"

Spock turned his face aside. "Must I say it plainly? It did not matter that he had given his word—that I paid for her safety with my compliance—that she was only a child. He…did as he pleased with her."

Now it came clear. "No," Kirk said low, but he felt like screaming it. He, too, felt like cursing and striking out at all the ugliness in life. But one of them had to stay in control and for once he could not depend on Spock for that. His hand outstretched, he went over and touched his friend's shoulder, steadying himself as much as Spock. There was no visible response. Kirk's heart thudded as he stood wondering at the cruel perversity of fate. _He_ should have been the one to pay, not Spock and T'Beth. _He_ was the one who killed Torlath's son.

At last Spock stirred. Straightening, he faced Kirk, the pain and anger not quite vanquished from his eyes. "If I had known down there, I would not have let you stop me."

"I would have killed him myself," Kirk declared.

With wrenching honesty Spock admitted, "All those weeks I never let myself seriously consider this eventuality—not on a conscious level. It would have made my situation…intolerable."

"You've both been through hell." Kirk could plainly see that.

Spock gave a nod and inhaled slowly. "My…lack of control frightened her."

"It's alright. You can go back. You can let her know you still love her."

Spock looked at him for a long moment, neither affirming nor denying that there was such a word as "love" in this Vulcan's vocabulary. But Kirk knew the truth about that. Spock had affirmed it a hundred times over, had ultimately affirmed it with his life. There were some things about Spock that no Vulcan retraining or Klingon cruelty would ever change, just as there were some things about him that would remain forever beyond the understanding of humans.

Through some mysterious inner process of calming, and pure grit, Spock squared his shoulders. "There is no danger that I will lose control again. What is done, is done. I will do what I can to comfort her." He moved to the door, and triggering it open, stood aside so that Kirk could precede him. "Admiral?"

"Jim," Kirk gently corrected and they entered the corridor together.


End file.
